Feeling a Moment
by inmymagicbluebox
Summary: Sherlock is in his first year at university and there's one boy in particular who's caught his eye: John Watson. Johnlock, AU, teen!lock, from Sherlock's POV
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes pushed the overcooked pasta around on his plate with his fork, not actually lifting any of it to his mouth and eating it. Truthfully, the only reason he came down for these stupid dinners was so he could get some extra time to see John Watson. Not that Sherlock ever spoke to him – oh he wished he did, but Sherlock never really spoke to anyone. He kept to himself and that was the way he liked it. This was why he was so scared to even say hello to John (he had calculated six possible outcomes and just about all of them didn't end well). Although John was in one of his two classes he took at university, he was always with friends, and well, Sherlock wasn't exactly the most popular person that everyone wanted to associate with and be around... Sherlock wasn't scared of John's friends – even though they tended to be the ones who picked on him most – he rather enjoyed when they spoke to him, spoke about him. It occupied him for a while and he took the opportunities to use his deduction skills in front of people and humiliate them. And it never failed to make him laugh inside at how brainless they were to keep on coming back to him when they knew that it would end with more than one of them being severely embarrassed at something Sherlock had deduced and that they'd never win while attempting to argue with the boy.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up from his now-cold-food to look across to John (he made sure he sat directly across from him, sitting at an angle where no heads would interrupt his view and they could see each other perfectly) but his gaze lasts for longer than planned. John was looking over at him too and their eyes fix for only a moment (2.8 seconds if Sherlock was counting correctly) until Johns face flushed a bright red and he quickly looked down. Sherlock smirked to himself when he got the reaction from John that let him know he had seen him looking at him. This had happened countless times previously to that night. They would catch each other staring just about every time they were in the same room as each other, and each time it would boost Sherlock's ego, for a second, giving him the confidence to debate going over and talking to him but he never would. Little did Sherlock know that John felt the same.

John had been in Sherlock's English class since they started their first year at uni four months ago. This was John's second class too. His other subject, the one he focused on most, was sports. At the age of seven John had realised he wanted to be a footballer after discovering he had a true, natural talent in the sport. Being in the same English class meant that John knew a bit about Sherlock. He knew he didn't have any friends and he knew that Sherlock Holmes was a very clever man indeed. John felt drawn to Sherlock. He felt seized by his puzzling and peculiar presence. But he had never spoken to him. John was worried about talking to the other man. He worried about what his friends would do; would they leave him for speaking to that "freak"? But the thing that panicked him the most was Sherlock's reaction. Whenever anyone else spoke to him he either seemed distant, like he obliviously didn't care about a word you were saying and he wasn't actually listening, or he'd make a fool out of you in front of dozens of people who would make sure to never let you forget it. So John thought it was best to wait for the right time to talk to him, when he was ready to take a chance in talking to the mysterious man.

Sherlock's other subject was chemistry. In his eyes he was aspiring to be something more practical and more fulfilling in life than John. Since a young age crimes and mysteries captured him and occupied him unlike normal things that would entertain children. Sherlock had always known that he had an amazing mind, one that worked uniquely from any other, and he always used this to his advantage. He could work people out from just a look, know their background, their life. He could tell what they were thinking, what they were feeling, what they knew and didn't know. This applied to John Watson too. Sherlock knew that he lived on campus, had one sister, parents were still together, no pets, played sports, tended to keep his feelings to himself, didn't really get on with his friends and felt he had to impress them – and that was all from one look the first time he walked into English class.

What Sherlock also knew was that the day was a Friday, and on Fridays John would always go back to his dorm room with his friends for a couple of hours, usually having a drink – going by the state of them on most Saturday mornings. Sherlock glanced at his watch. 18:16. That meant John and his friends were just about to leave and go back to John and David's room (the two friends shared). So Sherlock got up, dropped his fork and pushed the full plate of freezing pasta away, starting to swiftly walk back to his dorm, making sure to be ahead of John and his friends so they didn't bump into each other on the way to their separate rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

As Sherlock briskly walked down the corridors he kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact with any passers-by, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. The bottom of his long, grey jacket flared out every time he turned a corner. This was what Sherlock normally wore; his big, dark coat – collar always turned up –, his navy blue scarf, and underneath usually a shirt and trousers. Despite looking very odd in a university full of young people, all wearing jeans and t-shirts, dressed in casual-wear, that was what Sherlock liked to wear, he liked being more formal.

Sherlock's dorm was with everyone else's – at the opposite end of the school to the dining hall. So going by the speed he walked and the distance, he calculated around about a four and a half minute walk. The corridors were almost silent, a couple of people walking about but not many. If Sherlock remembered correctly there was a big party on tonight so people would be away in their dorms getting ready. He would have usually deleted a piece of useless information like that but it stuck at the back of his mind, unable to help wondering if John was going to it or not. John tended to go out to parties like that with his friends but it was obvious he never enjoyed it. If he didn't come back drunk then he'd be in a foul mood. Like Sherlock had deducted from the first time he saw John, he felt the need to impress his friends, he's the type of person who, didn't know it themselves but, is looking for approval from everyone, and they want to be liked. And it's clear to Sherlock that John felt he had to keep his friends, he had to fit in or they wouldn't like him anymore, he would just be another person for them to pick on.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was completely different from John. He never went out to parties with the other people at the school, but he did try to avoid the university as much as he could. He found it boring there. Well, unless something was going on that interested him. The only times he was in was to go to classes, to go to bed and occasionally to go to dinner, even though it was unlikely he'd eat anything (eating and digestion slowed him down). Parties were mainly for going out, getting drunk and having meaningless sex with someone. The only times he'd go out to a party would only be if he needed to, if he needed to find out some information about something. But that was different to what Sherlock was like before. Before, when Sherlock was a bit younger, he used to go out but not particularly to parties. He used to understand the meaningless sex; it let him forget about things, calmed him down. So did the drugs. But Sherlock wasn't that person any more. He had been clean for two years – besides the cigarettes, he didn't want to give them up. He didn't need the drugs and he didn't feel the need to sleep around with anyone. Now he got his kicks from other things. Since then he'd put ads in papers for detective work and got himself a place in a lab in St. Barts which occupied him, gave his mind something to do and, most of the time, stopped him from being bored.

As Sherlock passed the bathrooms that are a few doors away from his dorm he felt a sudden numbness to his head as he got knocked backwards, frantically trying to stay on his feet. He screwed his eyes closed from the sudden pain in his nose and forehead that followed the shock, his body half bent over and leaning against the wall. "You complete imbecile! Do you not look where you're going?" Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose as he opened his eyes, wincing as he started to stand straight again. He scanned up the body of the person who stood before him, muttering to himself at how stupid this man was. He lifted his hand to his nose, pulling it away after a second to see blood. "Look! You've made me bleed you complete and utter-" Sherlock cut his self off immediately as he looked up to the other man's face. _John_. He was standing in front of him, still holding the bathroom door, – which was the weapon that smashed Sherlock's head– his facial expression a mixture of guilt, embarrassment and slight fear.

"Oh! Oh my god... Sherlock... I didn't know you were walking there. I didn't mean to hurt you; I was just coming out of the bathroom... I'll help you. Sorry..." John's words came out as a mumbled rush as he tried to help Sherlock, putting his hand on his shoulder. His face was bright red and the colour was rapidly spreading right down his neck and over his ears.

"Get off of me!" Sherlock roughly rolled his shoulder out of John's kind grasp and took a step back from him, his voice bitter and deep. "I can manage perfectly fine on my own, thank you." He stated while brushing down his jacket, momentarily holding his hand to his nose again, trying to stop the blood flow.

This wasn't exactly how either of them wished their first meeting to be.

John let his hand fall away from Sherlock and he looked up at him with apologetic eyes. He only noticed then how tall Sherlock actually was compared to him – not that John attained any great height himself, but nonetheless, Sherlock was taller than what he expected (although people usually expect him to be shorter). Sherlock just stood for a moment, letting his eyes roam over John's body. Clean shoes, new shirt, freshly ironed trousers, hair just been combed, last used some form of spray around ten minutes ago...

"Are you sure you're okay? That looked like it was quite a shock for you..." John interrupted Sherlock's thought process, scratching the back of his neck (obviously something he did when he was nervous, which Sherlock took mental note of).

"Why were you heading this way?" Sherlock questioned, back to looking John in the eye again. Just as John was about to speak, Sherlock interjected, leaving John looking slightly confused and taken back by the sudden accusations. "You have a party tonight so surely you must have to be heading back to your, or a friends, dorm by now before you go out. So why were you going to walk in the opposite direction from the dorms?"

"I was... I was just going to pop to the library before I went, to get this book..." John trailed off and paused for second, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. "Hang on, how did you know I was going out?"

"It's a massive party; I just assumed you'd be going. That and what you're wearing kind of gave it away." John breathed out a small chuckle but his face returned to a more serious expression as a drip of blood from Sherlock's nose reminded him of what just happened, both of them briefly forgetting about it.

"Here," John fished in his pocket for a second, taking out a napkin. He lifted it to Sherlock's nose and was about to dab the blood away but Sherlock snatched it from his hand before he got too close, wincing after he did at his mistake.

"Sorry... I..." Sherlock turned to the side, back against the wall and pressing the napkin to his nose. He instantly regretted all of this meeting, they had only just met and he was already pushing John away, doing what he usually did with people. But he _knew_ John was different. He knew even before talking to him that John wasn't like all the other stupid people in that university. But still, he stepped away from the wall and took his hand away from his nose. "I better be off. You'll be late to your party." Sherlock had made sure to have already started walking swiftly away before John could get any words out. John turned around and let go of the bathroom door as he did so, watching Sherlock make his way down the corridor.

"Sherlock," John called after him, making Sherlock completely stop in his tracks but not turn around. "I am sorry... about hitting you with the door." Sherlock just listened to John's voice before he sighed, looking back at him and scanning him over one last time. He gave a single nod before setting off for his dorm again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock flumped down on his bed when he got back to his dorm, wiping the last of the blood away from his nose. He knew he hadn't broken it, the door just knocked it pretty bad and there was sure to be an obvious bruise the next day.

Thanks to Mycroft – Sherlock's older brother – he didn't have to share his dorm with anybody else. Mycroft was a very powerful man, practically the British government, so it didn't take much effort on his part to get what he wanted. But he and Sherlock didn't really get along; Mycroft just didn't want anyone else to have to deal with sharing a room with Sherlock. The brothers both had such amazing, complex minds and in truth were very similar, most likely why they didn't get along. That and, like all siblings, they felt the need to be one better than the other.

Sherlock's body suddenly jolted with fright as he was hurled out of his silence by the alerting ring of his mobile phone. "For God's sake..." He muttered to himself as he fished around in the pockets of his black trousers for his phone that was still persistently ringing. His fingertips soon hit the device and Sherlock sighed through his nose– which hurt the quickly-bruising feature, making him wince – as he pulled it out. He glanced at the caller ID as he hit the green 'answer' button with his thumb. Mycroft? Sherlock sighed again – but through his mouth this time. What the hell did he want?

"Ah, Sherlock, I was beginning to wonder when you'd answer. You took your time." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft's voice but there was something in it that made him immediately suspicious. He seemed unusually cheery for speaking to his brother, slightly more patronising than normal; which meant he had something to be cheery and patronising about. It wasn't something personal – well at least not something too big of a deal or he would have wanted to meet his sibling in person to show off whatever it was he had accomplished. So that left the only likely explanation; Sherlock was in shit. And after only a few seconds he knew it. The only problem was that he had no idea what he had done now.

"Mycroft," Sherlock addressed, narrowing his eyes sceptically even though Mycroft couldn't see. "What do you want?"

"Now now, brother, don't speak to me like that. You really shouldn't talk to your older-"

"Get to the point." Sherlock snapped, getting tired already of Mycroft's condescending voice. A sigh came from the other end of the phone.

"Father found out."

"Found out what?" Sherlock quickly asked, needing to know what exactly his dad had found out, a rapidly growing list of possibilities going through his head but most of them unlikely.

"About the drugs. I told you he would find out. You can't keep anything from him, he's not as stupid as you'd like to think-"

"How?" Sherlock demanded from his brother, needing to know more before he could think about what he was going to do in this situation.

"I'm not sure... maybe you should talk to him abou-"

"Tell me how he found out. Now, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice grew louder and then deeper, almost growling at him. He knew Mycroft knew how. He knows everything. Mycroft sighed.

"He got access to your bank account, he wanted to check your spending, and was looking up on how much money you had been taking out. He saw odd amounts being taken out every-so-often that wasn't paid to a store and he obliviously got suspicious. So he hacked into your phones details online to see who you'd been calling and texting, seeing if he could make any links. He called a few numbers and then he found your dealer." Mycroft explained at length and Sherlock could hear the smirk in his voice. After a moment's pause Sherlock hung up the phone, throwing it across the room with a strong curse. He watched as it smacked against the wall and landed on the floor, but it did not break. "Fuck... fuck" he muttered, ripping his fingers through the dark curls on the top of his head. Sherlock pressed his finger tips to his temples and took a deep breath in. He had to calm down and think rationally. _His father was going to murder him._ He closed his eyes and tried to think about what he was going to do. He knew he wouldn't get off lightly with this, his father certainly wouldn't be lenient, and there was no point in letting them know he had stopped the drugs a couple of weeks previously because he knew that would make no difference.

_Stupid phone. _Sherlock opened his eyes again to send a death-glare over to his mobile which was challengingly letting him know he had a text. Probably Mycroft again, complaining about Sherlock hanging up on him. For the first time Sherlock wished it were Mycroft and not anybody else. Reluctantly, Sherlock lifted himself off his bed and walked over to the phone.

_For the foreseeable future, father's stopped any more money going into your bank account. I did try to tell you that before you hung up on me. MH._

Before Sherlock's brain could process what his body was doing, his phone was across the other side of the room again. He growled a frustrated sigh and tore his jacket away from the hook on the back of his dorm door. After he threw it around his body, Sherlock grabbed his navy blue scarf that had previously been dumped on his bed when he had to clean up the remaining blood from his nose. After carelessly wrapping it around his neck, Sherlock hurriedly left his dorm, swiftly making his way to the nearest exit out of the building. He needed to calm down. He needed to think about everything. He needed to smoke.

Once he had escaped from inside the university, Sherlock found the nearest spot away from the school that was in darkness, hidden, and most importantly silent, so he could have some time to think. He dug around in his deep coat pockets for his cigarettes that he knew were in there – his lighter too – and he pulled one from the packet, hands slightly trembling. After lighting, Sherlock deeply inhaled from the cigarette, seconds later feeling the taste, the smell, entering his body. But as Sherlock took his second drag he noticed they weren't working as well as normal. He wasn't getting the usual calming-buzz from them. Sherlock lowered the cigarette, looking down on it as it smouldered, slowly exhaling the smoke from his body that matched the clouds in the black sky.

He knew what he needed now but tried to shake the thought away. He couldn't. Not after what just happened. Although it would be so easy...


	4. Chapter 4

***********Authors Note:** I'm really happy with the reaction these first few chapters have received, everyone has seemed to enjoy it. I'm going to carry on writing because I'm enjoying writing this, hopefully as much as you enjoy reading! Remember to leave comments, reviews, opinions and suggestions because it's really helpful to know what you think!*********

As he got closer, he could feel the booming bass of the music, gently pounding in his chest. He could smell it; the alcohol, the perfumes of different people, all tied together with a slight whiff of vomit. Sherlock brought his sight away from the ground and looked up in front of him, seeing the lights and small crowds of people outside the building where the party was taking place. It was drawing nearer and nearer. He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't care if anyone found out any more. Screw his dad.

* * *

"That'll be fifty." Sherlock nodded and handed over fifty pounds in notes. He had taken some cash out of the bank before he came back to university a week previous after his Easter holiday, and stored the money in his wallet.

Sherlock hated not knowing things.

He wished he could pull back the dark hood of the dealer to see the man with the thick Irish accent underneath. His face was hidden and it didn't help that they were out of sight in the darkness of an alleyway. But his mind was quickly taken off that as the Irish man handed his fix to him, brushing past him as he did. He made his way out of the alley, most likely to wait for a vulnerable partier to supply with their fun for the night.

* * *

After Sherlock had quickly examined his package to make sure he hadn't been cheated, he too stepped out of the alleyway, making himself slightly visible to the people that were attending the party. Sherlock was still half in darkness, hoping he wouldn't be noticed. He took a quick glance around; quick enough so nobody could see his face, quick enough to see who was there, _quick enough to see if John was there_. For a second his eyes fixed on a blonde. It was John. He was standing with two of his friends and a couple of girls. Internally, Sherlock frowned at this but his body did not move. He stood completely still in the shadows, watching from a distance.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock snapped his head to the side to see who the voice came from, mentally cursing at himself for being noticed. "Sherlock! Hey! What are you doing here?" After the initial shock of someone speaking to him, Sherlock could recognise that voice anywhere.

"Victor," He addressed, now facing the man.

"I thought you said parties weren't your type of thing?" Victor smirked, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Yes, Victor Trevor had asked Sherlock out to many parties before. Sherlock turned down every offer. Victor was the type of person who liked to go out and have fun with his friends; Sherlock wasn't. And he had lots of friends and was pretty popular; Sherlock wasn't. And despite the amount of times Sherlock had turned down his offers to go to a party, get some coffee, get some lunch, study together, go to the cinema, – the list goes on – and no matter how disinterested he seemed in him, Victor never stopped trying.

Minus the fact of Victor's desperate need to be around Sherlock, which was highly annoying; Sherlock didn't mind him all that much. He was more tolerable than the rest of the people at university anyway, and one of the only people that actually put up with Sherlock who didn't hate him.

"It's not my thing." Sherlock replied absentmindedly, his gaze passing right over Victors shoulder to where John was standing. _Did John look back? Just for a second..._

"Then what are you doing here, hmm?"

_He did look back, he did._ He was looking now, completely ignoring what his friends were saying and the girl that was trying to make conversation, much like Sherlock was doing with Victor. Both of them felt unable to look away, caught in a trance, almost, held by each other's eyes. "Sherlock? Sherlock?" Sherlock's attention snapped back to Victor as his sing-song voice interrupted his connection with John. "Are you even listening to me?" He laughed a little, glancing over his shoulder a couple of times to try and see what Sherlock was looking at.

"No." Sherlock replied bluntly, his eyes fixed on John again who was now back to talking with his friends. _What are they saying?_ Sherlock couldn't quite make it out – especially with Victor blabbering on in his ear.

Sherlock could feel his hands beginning to tremble. He was starting to remember how much he wanted his hit. "Don't you have friends to get back to?" He cut Victor short in his sentence, putting on a polite smile and changing his voice to sound nicer. He knew if turned on his charm Victor would go away quicker without asking any questions.

"Uh yeah, yeah I probably should. They'll be wondering where I've gotten too..." Victor trailed off. Sherlock hid his hands behind his back, clasping them together so Victor wouldn't notice them shaking.

"Goodbye, Victor." Sherlock nodded once, starting to turn around to walk away from the party scene.

"Sherlock wait," Victor stepped forward, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stopped and turned around, sighing impatiently. He could feel the weight of his hit in his pocket. "I just... I just wondered if you were doing anything next weekend? You know, if you wanted to do something? Maybe go to the cinema or something?"

"I really need to go." Sherlock stepped back from Victor's hand, his eyes drifting over to where John was before. He, his friends and the girls seemed to have disappeared in the time Sherlock wasn't looking. _Damn._

"Oh... Of course, yeah," Victor looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll, uh, see you..." When he looked up Sherlock was already walking away. "...later"

* * *

After Sherlock escaped Victor, he walked as fast as he could away from signs of life, wanting to be in private so he could get his fix.

Part of him was still thinking about John. He wondered if they saw each other when Sherlock wasn't with Victor John maybe would have came over to talk to him? Sherlock found himself beginning to worry. What if he didn't get home safely? What if he wasn't safe at the party? Someone could spike his drink, he could get too drunk... _Shut up, Sherlock_, he told himself. It was stupid to worry. Why was he worrying? He and John weren't even friends.

At that moment, Sherlock remembered his brothers words, "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." And now he was starting to see why.

* * *

Sherlock thought it was best if he waited until he got back to his dorm before he took his hit, less chance of being caught or having some junkie out on the streets beat him up for it.

When he got inside, he grabbed the package out of his pocket before throwing his coat and scarf on the floor at the bottom of his bed. Before Sherlock climbed on to his bed, he kicked off his shoes, leaving them lying untidily on the floor. He peeled open the package, his hands trembling with anticipation.

* * *

Sherlock lay back on his bed. Oh god he had missed this feeling. He felt relaxed, and happy, and numb. He closed his eyes, just breathing deeply. This was a sensation smoking couldn't give him. He knew it was bad for his self to do this, he knew that, but this was just for tonight, until he found another way to deal with his feelings. To spite his dad.

He thought of his dad as he lay there. He imagined what a joy it would be to see his face if he found out what his son had just done. Sherlock smirked to himself when he pictured it. But suddenly he sat upright, staring at the door. Someone knocked on it. Sherlock waited in silence to see if they'd knock again, if they'd say who it was. They knocked again. "Hello? Sherlock are you in there?" Sherlock froze. He knew exactly whose voice that was.

After a moment of debating, Sherlock quietly got up, deciding to answer the door. He briefly looked at himself in the mirror, checking for any signs of his night's activities. Sherlock opened the door only slightly, so his face could be seen, looking up at the man standing before him. _What was he doing here?_

"Are you alright?" After John saw Sherlock's face he seemed concerned all-of-a-sudden, he noticed something was slightly different. It wasn't that noticeable he was high, was it? Sherlock nodded, not keeping eye contact. John stayed silent for a moment. "I saw you at the party. I just sort of guessed when we spoke earlier that you wouldn't be there, you know, you don't seem much like someone who goes to parties."

"I'm not, I was just..." Once Sherlock was in the middle of his sentence he realised he couldn't make up a lie that would sound better than the truth. John seemed to smirk for a second but his eyes were starting to study Sherlock's face. Was he looking more into his sense that something was up, that something was different? Sherlock guessed it would probably only be a matter of time before John worked out what he had been doing. He didn't want John to know. He didn't want it to change what John thought about him. John's eyes met Sherlock's, – a different tension from before, at the party – Sherlock didn't look away this time. John took in a breath and curiously tried to look over Sherlock's shoulder into his room, resulting in Sherlock pulling the door tighter closed against his body.

Neither of them really knew what to do or what to say.

"Are you sure you're alright...?" Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He nodded again and smiled at John. John nodded back. "Okay. I guess you're just busy. I'll see you around..." Sighing slightly as he spoke, John rubbed his nose a little and took a step away from Sherlock's door, about to turn away. Sherlock stayed silent only for a moment.

"Why did you come here?" Sherlock let the door open a little further so he could poke his head through. He had to ask. He knew John was here for a reason and Sherlock couldn't stand not knowing why. John stopped but didn't turn around. _Did he look nervous?_

"I, uhhh..." He turned around. "I was just wondering, you know, because I saw you at the party, if you, uh," John paused and looked up at Sherlock's face – which showed a confused expression. John was appearing more and more nervous. _Hurry up, John. Just say it. What?_ "If you wanted to come back?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John cleared his throat. "With me?"


	5. Chapter 5

*******Authors Note:** Hello I really hope you're all enjoying! I'm sorry it took me so long to update but I've had basically no motivation recently. I'm on my summer holidays now so hopefully I'll get quite a bit more of this story done in the time I'm off. Anyway, I really hope you all enjoy this chapter! I'd still love it for as many people as possible to leave reviews, comments and opinions because it's really helpful to know what you guys think! There's also links to my Twitter and Tumblr in my bio if you'd like to contact me through those*****

Sherlock stared, his eyes wide. "You... want me... to go back to the party..." Sherlock spoke slowly, repeating John's words as if to make sure he heard them right. "With you..." he added after a longer pause. John folded his arms and looked down for a moment, trying to hold down a smile.

"Well that was what I was suggesting, yes," he nodded, eyes wandering over Sherlock's face. Sherlock remained silent, trying to keep control over his mind, over the substance he put into his body that was now luckily beginning to wear off. He was glad John had come now when it was wearing off rather than earlier when he was barely able to think for himself. "But I mean," John began after he obviously felt Sherlock's pause lasted too long, "You're busy," he shrugged despite his look of disappointment. John stepped back from Sherlock's door, getting ready to walk away once more.

"John wait," Sherlock called out to him before John started to walk. He didn't want to blow this opportunity. "I'll come." He watched John's face light up when he said those words. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at how happy he looked with the thought of spending time with him. "Just give me a minute. Wait out here." John nodded eagerly and Sherlock shut his door.

Once he was alone Sherlock did a little jump of happiness. Was this really happening? Was he really going out to a party with John Watson? He squeezed his feet into his shoes while his hands were busy shoving the evidence from a couple of hours ago into one of the drawers next to his bed, just in case. After he grabbed his scarf and jacket he reopened his door to still see John standing there. He hadn't run away when Sherlock wasn't looking, and he wasn't a hallucination, he was still there. John was still there waiting for him. Sherlock couldn't believe that someone wanted to spend time with him. Somebody actually wanted to get to know him and spend their time with him. _And it was John Watson._

* * *

Soon the familiar scents from his earlier journey were hitting Sherlock again. The party wasn't as busy as before, most people probably going somewhere more private to have their own fun – whatever that may be. They got to the door of the building, passing a few groups of people outside, one young girl getting her hair held back by a friend as she drunkenly threw up all over the ground. Sherlock looked away dismissively, reaching forward to the door handle, pulling the door open and stepping aside for John to go through first. He could have sworn he saw him blush at his action.

Once they were in John led him straight over to the bar, slipping through crowds of dancing and talking people. John was talking to the bartender, ordering drinks or something. But Sherlock was examining the area around him, looking at all the people who seemed oblivious to everything, everyone else around them, too concentrated on what they were doing or who they were with. He couldn't really recognise anyone and anyone was there most likely wouldn't recognise him, or at least wouldn't really care if they did see Sherlock. Everyone seemed too focused on other things to care, which was a good thing, of course. Sherlock got enough shit at school from worthless idiots and for them to get a glimpse of him looking very out of place at a party would just be the icing on their big cake of empty-headed mockery.

John handed Sherlock a little shot glass full of... well he wasn't really sure but it smelled like a mix of vodka and something else most likely alcoholic. Sherlock watched John as he downed his shot, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips at the screwed up face John made while drinking. John laughed at himself, a little chuckle that made his chest shake. Sherlock loved it when he laughed. He loved the way John's eyes lit up and little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth... It was captivating.

Sherlock brought his glass up to his lips before he sniffed the drink. John lifted his hand in the air briefly at the bartender who brought them another few shots over. Sherlock scanned over the bartender's face whose eyes were solidly fixed on John as he made the drinks. "Gay," Sherlock muttered his deduction aloud. John turned to him, picking up a drink the bartender just put down.

"What?" He questioned, obviously doubting he heard right over the music.

"Nothing," Sherlock shook his head. The bartender didn't seem to hear him either. He looked down at all the full shot glasses in front of them both. "Are you trying to get me drunk, John?" Sherlock jokingly raised an eyebrow, projecting his voice now so John could hear him properly. Sherlock didn't usually drink. When he was drunk he couldn't control things, couldn't control his mind as well as he could when he got high. At least when he was high the affects didn't last that long. And with drinking he had to deal with a massive hangover that was sure to follow. So that would leave him most likely another whole day where he couldn't use his brain properly. Besides, he had already taken something that night. Even though it was a few hours previous he wasn't going to risk anything.

John laughed again. "No! No, I'm not trying to get you drunk I'm just..." He shook his head, looking down briefly as he tripped over his words. He looked at the glasses. All full except from the two he had made empty. "Are you going to drink at all?" John asked kindly, not in a pressuring way.

"I'd better not..." Sherlock trailed off, still keeping the events of earlier that night to himself.

* * *

Multiple shots later, (all drank by John, he must have taken it as his duty to drink them all seeing as Sherlock wasn't going to help) and both of them sat at the bar, looking out at everyone else having a good time and dancing with each other. Sherlock had removed his jacket and it was folded up on the bar. John was pretty much drunk by this time, it wasn't hard to tell. His speech had changed; he was sloppier with his words and posture – he was leaning closer and closer into Sherlock's body, just about to fall off of his seat. It was silent between them; it had been for a couple of minutes now. John kept looking over at Sherlock and every time Sherlock looked back he'd look away again. "What is it?" Sherlock eventually asked. John wanted to say something, it was obvious. Confused, Sherlock watched John as he got off of his bar stool and stood in front of him. He extended a hand and Sherlock looked down at it, eyebrows furrowed. "Well we're not just going to sit about all night are we?" Oh. _Dance?_ John wanted him to dance with him? Sherlock swallowed, clearing his throat as he choked a little. John must have taken his surprised reaction as a yes because the next thing Sherlock new, his body was being pulled up by John's previously outstretched hand.

"John you're drunk," Sherlock shook his head but he still let John pull him up.

Once they were up John led Sherlock back a few steps so they were in amongst all the other people. He stood still, completely alien to what he was meant to be doing. Sherlock watched John as he began to move to the beat of the music. He was laughing and Sherlock couldn't help but smile too – John's laugh was undoubtedly contagious.

* * *

After a while Sherlock found his self moving too. He had no idea what he was doing but he kept doing it. He felt quite awkward, still out of place but slowly, yet surely, that was starting to slip away. At that moment Sherlock wanted to pinch himself. _John Watson was dancing with him! _And it was the happiest he had felt in a very long time. He was starting to let himself go. Being with John distracted him and made him begin to forget about the barrier he had taken so many years to put up. He just felt so comfortable around him, even though they had only spent a while in each other's company.

In the space of time they had been dancing Sherlock hadn't noticed how close John was getting to him. Neither of them broke the eye contact they were sharing and they had become the people they were observing earlier. Now everyone around them had just become shapes, figures, which they were completely unconscious of. John was right in front of Sherlock, they were just about touching. Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face, lingering at his lips. His body was telling him, instructing him to just kiss him. And _god_ did he want to. But his mind conflicted himself. As Sherlock looked up again he nearly banged noses with John. _He was so close._ Sherlock could feel John's warm breath on his skin. He could smell the alcohol in it. "John..." Sherlock breathed out. His mind was fighting with itself, his internal barrier threatening to rise, nagging him to stop whatever he was about to do. "You're drunk," he stated as he did earlier. His expression changed with those words, his face was harder and his voice turned cold. "I should take you back to your dorm." Sherlock looked down; breaking that contact they had held for so long. And he took a step away from John, leaving him standing there. He couldn't bring himself to see John's face so he turned away, grabbed his jacket and started to squeeze his way through the crowds of people, heading for the door.

* * *

Once Sherlock was finally outside he looked around to see John following behind as expected. Guilt hit him like a blow to the stomach when he looked at John's face. But he swallowed his regret and directed his sight away from him, turning around so his back was facing John. "Come on, let's go." Sherlock broke the silence and started walking but John didn't respond and he couldn't hear him moving. "John, come on-" Sherlock broke himself off as he turned back to see John doubled over with his hand on his stomach, silently retching. "Jesus Christ..." he muttered as he walked over to John and placed a hand on his back. "Are you oka-" Sherlock words were cut short again, but this time by John. He gripped onto one of Sherlock's trouser legs as he vomited, bits of it splashing onto Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock sighed as he patted John's back. "Done?" John nodded but halfway through his nod turned into a shake and he threw up a little more. Sherlock smiled a mix of disapproval and sympathy as John managed to stand up, replacing his grasp of Sherlock's trouser leg with the arm of his coat.

"Too much dancing," John slurred, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve as Sherlock began to guide him along, walking very slowly.

* * *

"It's okay, we're nearly there," Sherlock comforted as they walked along the corridors, making their way to John's dorm. There was nobody walking about the university, Sherlock didn't really expect anyone to be at this time of night. Unless they were coming back from the party or somewhere else, but everyone at the party looked like they'd most likely be staying longer than they did. Luckily the university didn't have a specific time for the students who stayed on campus to be back at the weekends so they weren't going to get a row for wandering the corridors past midnight.

John had been mumbling away the whole journey back, about how he shouldn't have drank so much and he was going to regret it in the morning. Sherlock wasn't really listening; he was too concentrated on getting him back to his bed safely. Although he did pick up a bit about him having to get some paracetamol from someone because he didn't have any left and so made a mental note for them to stop off at his dorm so he could get some for him.

They got to Sherlock's door, just down the corridor from John's, and Sherlock stopped outside. "I'll just be one minute okay? I'm going to get you some paracetamol for when you wake up tomorrow." John nodded as Sherlock fished about in his pocket for his keys. In one swift move he pulled them out and unlocked the door. He pushed the door open and ushered John in his room. "You can sit down if you're not feeling too good," Sherlock signaled to his bed before he turned around and started rummaging through drawers for the hiding painkillers that he knew were there somewhere. He caught a glimpse of them in the third drawer he looked in and made a grab, pulling out the packet. "Found them!" Sherlock notified, holding them in the air as he spun around to his bed where he told John to sit. But he stopped, lowering his arm and knitting his brows together. "John?" He took a few steps forward to his bed where John was lying, face down, passed out and snoring quietly into the mattress. Sherlock smiled to himself, bending down at the side of the bed and looking over John's sleeping face. There wasn't much point in trying to wake him up, he was already deep asleep. So Sherlock placed the paracetamol packet at the side of his bed on top of the drawers and went to the end of the bed where he carefully pulled off John's shoes so he would be more comfortable. He fetched a spare blanket from his wardrobe and draped it over John's resting body before he sat on the empty bed opposite, the one that was meant for Sherlock's nonexistent dorm-mate. He watched John for a while, just watching him sleep, before he got out of his clothes and into pyjamas. He climbed into the cold unfamiliar bed that sat on the other side of the room to his usual bed and he lay awake, reciting the events of the night until sleep eventually forced him to close his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

*******Authors Note:** Thanks again to all those reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think :) ******

John awoke early the next morning – not by choice. Sherlock was knelt beside his bed, nudging his arm gently. "John," he loudly whispered, prodding him again. John groaned as he shifted his head to the side and Sherlock drew back his hand. He cocked his head so it was at the same angle as John's, watching him as he slowly opened his eyes. Gradually Sherlock came into focus and John jilted his head back in fright, proceeding to moan in pain from his stiff neck. He was bound to be pretty stiff; he had been in the same position all night, flat on his stomach, the way he passed out.

"What..." he mumbled, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes again momentarily as he did.

"Here." Sherlock reached to the table beside his bed, taking down a glass of water that once was cold and the packet of paracetamol he got the night before. "For your head," Sherlock explained, holding the cup and pills out to him.

"My head." John repeated as he awkwardly sat up in Sherlock's bed. It only seemed to be after Sherlock mentioned it that he felt the dull pain masking his skull. John took the items from Sherlock's hands and swallowed the pills, washing them down with the warming tap water – to which he screwed his face up to at the taste. "What time is it?" John mumbled, still in the process of waking up.

"Just after six thirty." Sherlock sat himself up on the bed opposite, the one he slept on, and watched John. He could tell something wasn't quite right with him, something was different, and he knew it wasn't from the hangover. They way he looked at Sherlock was strange, like he was nervous about something, worried, guilty. Sherlock could see it in his eyes. John put the cup down on the bedside table and looked over at Sherlock again. Sherlock scanned over John's body. _Fidgeting, unable to keep eye contact, lip biting. _It was driving Sherlock insane.

As John took in a deep breath, about to start talking, Sherlock's head shot up to his face. "Sherlock?" His voice was quiet, anxious.

"John."

"Did-... Last night-... Did we uh..." John cleared his throat as if it was to fill in the words he was meaning so he didn't have to say it. Sherlock stayed still, looking at John with furrowed brows, ingenuous expression. John's glare was unimpressed, waiting for Sherlock to get it. Either Sherlock was being really stupid and genuinely didn't know what he was going on about, or he just wanted John to say it. John really wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter.

After a moment of awkward silence John reluctantly said it, sighing out the words. "Did we sleep together, Sherlock?" Sherlock shifted his body just a little then raised an eyebrow.

"John, if you are meaning did you and I both sleep in the same room at the same time then the answer would be yes. I thought that would be obvious." John just stared at Sherlock, like he was taking a moment to compute what he just said. Did he really just say that? Now John was convinced he just wanted him to spell it out to him. And John would be right to think that. But what other choice did he have but to do so?

"So... So we didn't," he paused. "Have sex or anything?" John asked, again he looked down, not keeping eye contact, unlike Sherlock whose eyes were fixed on John. Sherlock smirked and sat forward, clasping his hands around his knees.

"No, John. We did not." John slowly nodded, rubbing the last of his sleep out of his eyes.

"Right... Okay. That's okay." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, expertly making his self look as innocent as he could, trying to hide his smirk.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No." John hastily replied, slight colour warming his neck. "I'm not disappointed, just... relieved."

"Relieved?"

"Well yes, I guess." John readjusted his position, sitting up more in the bed. "I can't remember much about last night so it's a relief I didn't do anything... drastic."

"Right." Sherlock paused before continuing, making sure to pick up every detail of John's reactions to this situation, drinking it in. "So what you're saying is if you didn't consume as much, or any, of the alcohol you did last night then you would have wanted to commit to a sexual act with me?" Sherlock kept his face completely straight, watching John as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's words.

"I..." John began but he was totally lost for words. By this time the slight blush from his neck had spread over all of his face and was beginning to creep over his ears. "I didn't say that," He managed to say in a pathetic attempt to argue.

"But you aren't denying it," Sherlock replied almost instantly, his voice challenging, the smug smile on his face making it obvious how much he was enjoying this. John half-opened his mouth, trying to find the words to say something back, undoubtedly frustrated.

"Well, I'm denying it now."

"Oh are you?" Sherlock's voice was different now, lower, quieter but still testing. John swallowed, his eyes secured on Sherlock.

"Yes." And they both fell silent but didn't look away from another.

"It's getting close to seven," Sherlock stated without even looking away from John to the clock, breaking the silence but continuing to keep his voice low.

"What?" John questioned, clearly confused by the sudden change of subject.

"The time. It's nearly seven."

"Oh right, yeah," John nodded, his mouth still slightly parted and his eyes subconsciously examining Sherlock's. "So?"

"So, you need to get back to your dorm. That's why I woke you up so early, so you could get back there without anyone seeing you."

"Why would it matter if anyone saw me?" _God, John could be stupid._

"You don't think it would be suspicious if someone saw you leave someone else's dorm first thing in the morning in last night's clothes and had no idea of your whereabouts from that night?"

"Oh." John gave a single nod and there was a shared pause before Sherlock unclasped his hands from around his legs and stood, John following his actions.

"But if anyone saw me sneaking about right now, trying to get back to my dorm it wouldn't look suspicious? Or if Michael woke up when I got in the dorm?" John asked as he made his way over to Sherlock's door, having obviously been thinking about the situation.

"John, it's Saturday morning," Sherlock began, walking over to John and his door. "Practically everyone that goes here went out last night so nobody's going to be awake yet. And Michael won't wake up. He wouldn't have got in until late last night so he'll be exhausted." John nodded in agreement, smiling briefly up at Sherlock before looking over at the corner opposite him, something catching his eye.

"I think you dropped your phone, it's down there." He pointed in the direction of the thrown, not dropped, mobile and Sherlock spun around to see it, only now remembering about his Dad, Mycroft... there was bound to be tonnes of unread messages... He smirked to himself. Mycroft hated it when he ignored his messages.

"Uh, yeah, thanks." He reached his hand out to the door handle for John, about to open it but his body froze when he felt something touching him. He looked down to his arm where John's hand lay, on top of his shirt sleeve. Slowly, Sherlock's gaze travelled up to John's face, who was smiling softly at him.

"I just wanted to say thanks. And sorry." He added with a chuckle. Sherlock stayed completely still, his body paralysed in a mix of shock and panic. _John-Watson-had-his-hand-on-his-arm-he-was-actually-touching-him-John-Watson-was-touching-him_. But despite his mind going at 2000 miles-per-hour, Sherlock's face and voice remained fairly calm.

"For what?"

"Well, thanks and sorry for letting me stay here last night. You didn't have much of a choice." John laughed softly, letting his hand slide off of his arm. Sherlock's eyes left John's face for just that second to watch the contact leave. "I don't usually get that drunk. It was kinda a bad first impression, wasn't it?" Sherlock shrugged. Whatever happened the night before wasn't Sherlock's first impression of John – despite this being the first of them actually spending time together. He had been observing John for a while, and could know anyone just by a simple glance. Sherlock pulled down the handle again, opening the door slightly for John. "Goodbye, John."

* * *

After John had left, making sure to check the hallway before he went out into it for any students or teachers, Sherlock sat down on the edge of his bed, mobile in hand. He scrolled through it. Three missed calls and fifteen new messages. All from Mycroft. Not as dramatic as he'd usually be, which Sherlock frowned at. He loved it when his brother got all worked up. But he set the phone down on his bedside table, next to the half-empty cup of warm water and packet of paracetamol – still not reading any of the messages. He could most likely guess what they'd all say anyway. And plus, Sherlock had other things to think about. Like John.


	7. Chapter 7

*******Authors Note: **Hello, amazing readers! Thanks for coming back to read this next chapter. This story is continuing to get views and I'm still very much enjoying writing it, two things I'm glad for. Leaving a comment or a review once reading, as I've said many times before, will be much appreciated and very helpful :)*****

Sherlock tapped the side of his mug, his fingernails making an improvised tune. His eyes scanned over the table, picking up the stains from the bottoms of old coffee cups and crumbs in the corners. Why did Mycroft want them to meet here? It was disgusting. And busy. And it smelled. And Mycroft was late. He was never late, unless he was trying to be dramatic – which Sherlock wouldn't put past him. He never told Sherlock why he wanted to meet, he just texted him the place and time. Mycroft preferred to talk in person about things (especially with Sherlock. Then he couldn't ignore texts or hang up the phone on him).

About a million possibilities and reasons were running through Sherlock's head; trying to amuse his self while he was waiting. Was it about his dad? About the drugs? Did Mycroft know what he did after he got off the phone? It wouldn't surprise Sherlock if he did, if he was honest. Somehow Mycroft had eyes everywhere, he could know everything, if he wanted (which sometimes was to Sherlock's advantage, sometimes disadvantage). But his head was pulled out of thought as he looked up, first at the jangling wind chimes above the door, then down to his brother standing underneath them. Mycroft was dressed in his usual suit-and-tie style, looking overdressed for the grubby cafe he organised their meeting in.

"Brother," Mycroft nodded as he sat down, Sherlock watched him without a word. He was analysing his older brother's features as he came over. He didn't seem particularly angry – which must be a good thing? Maybe a little... worried? It was hard to tell. The man, like his younger sibling, was extremely practiced in hiding his emotions.

"The waitress told me they do nice cakes in here when I came in," Sherlock raised his brows with a smirk. "Unless, that is, you're still trying to stick to that diet?" He watched Mycroft shift in his chair and lean forward across the table. Sherlock knew exactly how to push Mycroft's buttons with things he was uncomfortable with – but unfortunately, it was a skill both brothers possessed.

"Sherlock, I didn't come here to start a stupid little fight with you."

"Then why are you here?"

"I know what you got up to the other night." Now it was Mycroft's turn for a smirk. "Making a fool of yourself with that boy." _Boy? _So this definitely wasn't about the drugs. No, it was about... John? What the hell did John matter to Mycroft? Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"John?" He spoke, all the evidence of that mocking smirk he had on his face only seconds ago, replaced completely with confusion.

"Yes," Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "John Hamish Watson, I believe." He nodded while fumbling about in his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a few sheets of paper that were folded in half.

"What's that?" Mycroft ignored Sherlock, unfolding the paper and scanning over it with his eyes.

"One sister: Harriett, bad relationship with his father, trust issues-" Sherlock made a grab for the documents that his brother was casually listing from, but Mycroft quickly moved them backwards and held them above his head so he couldn't reach.

Why did he go through so much effort of finding out about John? Sherlock didn't understand and couldn't see how any of it would matter to him in the slightest. Why did he feel the need to get so involved in Sherlock's life at every opportunity he got? He didn't need him watching over him all the time.

"My my, Sherlock. You do get possessive quickly, don't you?" He smoothly laughed before tucking the paper safely into his breast pocket.

"I'm not possessive!" Sherlock lowly snapped. "I just don't want you sticking your nose in where it's not wanted."

"How long have you known the boy? A couple of weeks? And look at you already emotionally involved. A bit strange coming from you, Sherlock."

"It's been about a month now, actually," He corrected, scowling. "And I'm not emotionally involved! Not that it's any of your business if I was." Mycroft paused his reply for a moment, holding back a small smirk at his joy of getting his younger brother wound up. But then his expression seemed to soften, if that was possible, and he leant his body forward onto the table again.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm just... warning you, that's all."

"Warning me? Warning me about what?" Sherlock interrupted, glaring up at his elder sibling, brows knitted.

"That caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He spoke back just as harshly. Ah yes. The words Mycroft had reminded Sherlock of his whole life, and in turn so did Sherlock to himself.

To most people, including Sherlock, Mycroft didn't seem like the type of person to care for anyone, his most famous words of advice making that more believable. But deep down, and badly expressed when it showed, was some sort of concern for his younger brother. Although that concern was not kindly accepted.

Sherlock shifted in his chair and swallowed. He knew Mycroft was right and he didn't like it. "Since when did you ever bother about who I decide to care for?" He exclaimed but then lowered his voice again after noticing he had caught a waitress's attention from across the room. "I already told you, stay out of my life." Sherlock gritted each word out, his eyes locked on Mycroft. He didn't want his help or care or guidance. He didn't need it. So Mycroft courtly nodded in response.

"Very well. I'm sure you know what you're getting yourself in to."

"What's that even got to mean? John and I we're just... friends," He took care over that word; 'Friends.' Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. Didn't. "And we've only known each other a while."

"You think I haven't noticed? They way you defend him, the way talk about him and act around the subject? It's clearly a little more than just friends on your behalf." That made Sherlock momentarily wordless.

"You're implying I have, or am developing, feelings for him?" Mycroft shrugged his eyebrows.

"It would appear so. You seem to forget how easily I can read you, Sherlock." Sherlock sent a glare his way before he sat himself up straight.

"I'm sure we both have much better things we could be doing with our day rather than sitting here arguing over something so unimportant," Sherlock began with a sigh, shaking his head. "As you said, you're not here to start stupid fights with me. So, if you're quiet finished, then I shall be leaving." And with that Sherlock stood, maintaining the heavy eye contact with his brother as he did. "Good day, Mycroft." He nodded, adding in before he could say anything back to him.

And Mycroft watched Sherlock leave, not speaking a word as he did so.


	8. Chapter 8

*******Authors Note: ** I know I'm a little late as Christmas has been and gone, as has New Years, but I've written a little Christmas chapter nevertheless! I hope you all had a wonderful festive period, if you celebrate it or not, and I really hope you all enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think of it in the reviews or in my Tumblr or Twitter which is linked to in my bio :). *****

Sherlock slumped down on the bench inside the shopping centre with a sigh. He thought going out and looking in shops would inspire him but it was no use. He was still absolutely clueless on what to get John from Christmas. He wasn't even fully sure why he was bothering, his concealed sentimentality appearing to take over his mind in this situation.

It had now been a few months since Sherlock and John began talking, since the party, and clearly Sherlock wasn't taking the advice from his older brother to stay away and spare his feelings. He couldn't help it. For so long he had watched John and now he was becoming close to him, they made each other oddly happy for being such different people so, as much as Sherlock knew he shouldn't, he continued to spend time with John.

Of course the time they spent together was limited due to the workload they had for university, and John's other friends, but if they were lucky, they could find a day where they could go out, escape the walls of their school and all of the unaccepting faces that were held in them. That's what they had planned for the next day. It was drawing close to the Christmas break and both were returning home for the two weeks, so this could be the last opportunity they had to be together until the new term.

* * *

Sherlock checked his watch. John was on average five minutes and forty-two seconds late for everything and one minute had already gone of that. He had just enough time to nip to the bathroom and check everything to do with his appearance was okay. God that sounded so stupid in his head. Since when did Sherlock Holmes care what he looked like? Since he had somebody to look good for. Though he never went all out on his appearance, he just kept up with things that would seem normal to anyone else but he never used to bother with; keeping his hair combed and a reasonable length (even though nothing could really tame it), deciding that maybe it's best not to try and get away with wearing the same clothes two days in a row, and such.

As Sherlock entered the male's bathroom he took a quick glance around. Okay. Good. Nobody else was in. He approached the only mirror that was above the sinks and stared at himself. He and John were so different, in personality and appearance. John was sporty, fit, blonde, handsome… everything Sherlock could ever dream of in a friend, in a boyfriend. That was one of the only downfalls to all of this. He could guess and deduce all he wanted at John's sexuality but in certain people it could be one of the hardest things to presume. Sherlock observed the way he looked at girls, the way he looked at boys, on his own, and when he was with his friends, but all the while he seemed to look at most the same. Sherlock hoped he was the one that John looked differently at. He roughly adjusted the turned up collar of his jacket. "_God damn it, Sherlock, stop_." He harshly whispered to himself, glaring at his reflection. He was getting in deep and he knew it – although what he didn't know, was how to stop it.

With a sudden loud creak from the bathroom door, Sherlock dropped his hands from his hair, having been trying desperately to make one bit that was hanging down in front of his forehead sit correctly, and swiftly turned around to be faced with John. Initially their faces both screwed in confusion of their unexpected meeting in the bathroom, but they soon fell into quiet laughter. "Hey," John introduced with a spreading grin as he walked over closer to Sherlock, which Sherlock repeated. "I must have had the same idea as you," John motioned to the mirror. "I saw you weren't there so I thought I'd come in here and sort myself out," He said with a smirk that made Sherlock question if he was being sincere or mocking. A small blush crept over Sherlock's cheeks, the growing colour obvious against his porcelain skin.

"I, uh, I was just, uh," he stammered out as John walked over to him and the mirror. _Control your words_, Sherlock reminded himself, remaining completely still as John got closer. "What are you doing?" His body was frozen, he was surprised he managed to get his words out. John's hand was stretching up to Sherlock's hair, about to push back the strand that Sherlock was trying to previously fix by himself.

"Just stay still," John chuckled as Sherlock tried to jerk back. After it finally staying in place from John's gentle touch, he let the hair go and met Sherlock's eyes again. "There," he quietly confirmed, his hand lingering for just a second longer than it should have – which of course was picked up on by Sherlock – before he dropped it down by his side again. Sherlock wished he knew what to do right then. Should he move away? Say something? God he wished he had something witty to say instead of being stationary to the spot, unable to look away from John's eyes. "Are you done in here then? We can go and have our meet up in the café, where we were meant to be, rather than their bathroom," John breathed out a small laugh as he eventually stepped back from Sherlock, leaving his friend quietly craving his closeness.

* * *

They had found some seats near the back of the café, next to a window that was looking out onto the busy town. The seats were a lucky grab, the closeness of Christmas meant the city was mobbed, but this was the only time they were able to meet before the holidays. As Sherlock sat down he removed his coat, and the heavy lump in his left pocket reminded him that he had a gift for John. He glanced across at his friend who was scanning over the menu, and began to anxiously fumble about in his pocket to pull out the perfectly wrapped gift. Was he really nervous to give a stupid Christmas present to John? Sherlock wanted to slap himself and tell himself to get a grip, but instead he cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "John?"

"mhm?" He hummed without looking up from the menu.

"I bought you something. For Christmas." John eventually looked up with furrowed brows. Sherlock actually got him something?

"You… bought me a present?" Sherlock paused for a moment at John's disbelief. Was it a bad thing that he was so surprised? Was it because he didn't get him anything in return?

"Uh, yes… here." He awkwardly handed the gift over the table to John, whose face was slowly acquiring a smile. As John began to unwrap it, he felt a sense of guilt in his previous thinking that Sherlock wouldn't bother to buy him anything. He had the idea of a standby present, something he wasn't going to mention unless Sherlock had bought him something too. It was stupid and a little bit selfish of John to do so, but Sherlock wasn't really the type of person you'd expect to go out buying people presents, and John had no idea how he'd react to someone giving him one, so he thought he'd play it safe. Although, when it came down to it, John had absolutely no idea what to get him. So he decided to go with the easy option and just bring some extra money with him to give.

John tore off the wrapping paper from his gift and pulled out the book which was inside. He held it up, letting the ripped paper land on the table as he read the title. It was a brown, leather bound, delicately decorated copy of "The Hobbit" by J. R. R. Tolkien. "God, Sherlock," John chuckled as he admired it. "This would have been expensive… You shouldn't have spent that much on me," he shook his head while carefully laying the book down on the table. Sherlock shrugged, a smile creeping across his lips as he watched how happy he had made John. The price of the book wasn't too bad and he really didn't mind spending the money on John, especially since it turned out to be a good guess of a present after all. "Thank you," John beamed over at Sherlock, and after appreciating the book for another small minute, he reached into his jean's pocket to pull out Sherlock's money. "I've got something for you too. It's only this because I had no idea what to buy…" John let out a slightly nervous chuckle as he handed over the small note to Sherlock, who took it with as much gratitude as he would if John had bought him something with it.

"Why don't we put this towards lunch?" Sherlock asked as he held up the money between his fingers and John nodded in agreement.

Both boys couldn't help but grin across at each other. And they found it hard to stop doing so for the rest of the way through their small meal.


	9. Chapter 9

***********Authors Note:** Hello, everyone! First of all, I'd like to apologise for my hiatus, which was much, much longer than I expected. I've had exams right the way through January, and since then I've been preparing for my final exams that now I've nearly finished sitting. Only one more to go! Woo hoo! So yeah, because I'm nearly done with those and I'm on study leave, I decided to pick this story back up again. Hopefully the next chapter shouldn't be a long wait as I'm really excited to write it, and things are _finally_ going to heat up between Sherlock and John! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and remember that reviews are always helpful! Thank you!*******  
**

"Sherlock?" John shouted through the crowd as he tried to squeeze past all the people. He could spot Sherlock a mile off; his height, the mop of curls on the top of his head, and his long trademark jacket – with turned up collar, of course – all made him stand out from the rest of the students.

Sherlock was in his own little world, trying to fight through the mass of people, some loitering and others with the same ambitions as him, all clogging up the outside area of the university. It was always busy after the holidays, as most were returning back to the halls from their homes. Sherlock usually made an effort to get there slightly earlier to beat the rush, but this time was different; this time he had arranged to meet John.

The Christmas holidays for Sherlock were spent like every other year: mostly by himself, locked away in his room – until Christmas day came and his mother made him come downstairs and "spend time with the family" – or out and about, solving little cases for people who knew of him in his town. For John, the holidays were entirely different. He couldn't imagine wanting to spend a time like that by himself. For him, Christmas was about family, and making everyone happy. His views on family, friends, and stuff like that were almost the opposite of Sherlock's, he knew that, they both knew that. And yet, for people so different, they seemed to just… click.

"Sherlock!" John called out again. "Sherl-" He was close enough now to grab the sleeve of his jacket, and Sherlock finally turned around. John chuckled at himself, slightly out of breath from fighting his way over to him. "Hi," He finally said once the both of them had stopped, and he had quickly ushered Sherlock out of the way of the crowd.

"Hello," Sherlock responded, his lips curling into a smile at the sight of the boy before him, which John imitated. If Sherlock was an openly affectionate person, then he could have hugged John right then. He wouldn't admit it, but Sherlock had missed him.

* * *

They walked into the building with each other, John making small talk with Sherlock, catching up a little on what they had missed with each other while they were separated over the holidays, regretting that they should have met up more often. John told him about the family Christmas dinner, smiling fondly at the memory, while Sherlock had a completely different expression while talking about his.

It felt like conversation was beginning to trail off between them, but it was almost like John couldn't bear that to happen, and he began rambling about all sorts of things that Sherlock wasn't listening to a word of. He was more concentrated on John's body movements. He was doing all sorts of things with his hands; tapping his fingers, more gestures while talking than usual, fumbling with sleeves. Sherlock could tell he was nervous about something or other.

"You want to ask me something." He interrupted John in his nonsense babbling.

"I-… What?"

"You want to ask me something. I can tell, it's something important. You're nervous." John swallowed and stayed silent for a moment, completely unexpectedly caught out. How could Sherlock have known? Asking wasn't even something he'd thought about yet, the question was still only just the formation of a plan at the back of his mind.

"Well, no, I was, uh, going to, uh, thinking of maybe-"

"John," Sherlock cut into his mumbles, raising an expectant eyebrow.

John stopped walking, bringing them both to a halt outside of his dorm door.

"Do you want to come in? My roommate won't be in for a while," He added. He knew Sherlock would be able tell he was trying to change the subject, but he carried on anyway. "Unless you want to take your stuff back to your room or…?"

"No, no I'll come in," Sherlock nodded. He knew John was trying to change the subject. But he also knew that it wouldn't be long before John brought it back up again. His nerves would only get the better of him, and because he probably knew that Sherlock wouldn't forget about this.

* * *

John dumped his bag on his bed as soon as he got in, throwing his jacket on a hook on the back of the door after he did, before sitting himself down on the bed as well. Sherlock stood at the side of the room, near the door that he came in. "You can sit down too, you know?" John chuckled and Sherlock felt a small flush of heat rise to his cheeks.

"Yes…" He shook his head at himself. "Of course." Sherlock glanced between the two beds, John's and his roommate's – where did John want him to sit? – before deciding to perch himself on the end of John's bed. He looked across at John after a long moment and furrowed his brows slightly. "Why are you smirking like that?"

"I'm not smirking," John tried to deny with a hint of laughter in his voice which made it more obvious.

"You are, you're smirking at me. Why?" John finally let out a chuckle.

"You're just so bloody awkward about everything!"

Sherlock began to laugh with him.

* * *

Both John and Sherlock had lost track of time. They had been sat on John's bed for a few hours now, just chatting, laughing. They were both thankful that John's roommate hadn't barged in yet and disrupted the moment they were having, even though worries about that were long forgotten by that point. Sherlock now had his back against the wall that was beside John's bed, while John sat leaning back against the headboard. They were so nearly sitting next to each other. For a small moment, they slipped into silence. It was an odd sort of silence, because it felt like they were saying a thousand words just by looking at each other. Sherlock's eyes drifted over John's face and traced over his lips. Oh _God _did he want to just reach forward, cup his face in his hands and bring him into a kiss… But no. He couldn't do that. He had no idea how John would react to something like that. Well, not at this stage in their friendship anyway.

Friendship. That was an odd word for Sherlock to associate himself with. He hadn't been involved in many friendships in his life, and to make one now, so unexpectedly and fast was very strange, yet still all-the-welcome. Mainly because it was John. Such an unlikely pair and yet there they were; friends. Sherlock felt so greedy and selfish for wanting more than that.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock blinked. John's voice was soft, but Sherlock was still a little startled by the sudden interruption. "Sorry," He apologised and Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "It's just that you were right earlier. I was planning on asking you something." Sherlock tried to hold back a smirk. He knew it would come out eventually. "Although I have no idea how you guessed it so fast, I wasn't even sure if I was going to ask it then..." John chuckled and Sherlock straightened up, anticipating what John was going to propose to him. "Anyway, it's nothing really important… Well, sort of… I don't know…"

That clearly meant it was something pretty big.

"Do you want to go out somewhere this weekend?" He finally asked after a moment's pause, which Sherlock then imitated. That was it? He just wanted to go out somewhe- Oh.

"You mean like a date?" Sherlock blurted out, causing John's face to immediately flush with colour.

"W-well, I mean- I didn't say that, I- I'm not…" He left that sentence unfinished, but Sherlock knew what he was going to say. God, why did he always have to try his luck?

"Yes, of course, sorry. I shouldn't have assumed. Or asked. I do apologise." Sherlock tried to quietly laugh it off, but the chuckle came out sounding forced and uneasy. "Like you said: I always make things awkward, don't I?"

"You haven't made things awkward, Sherlock, I just… You took me by surprise that's all."

"Right."

They lapsed into another moment of quietness.

"I guess I should be getting back to my dorm now anyway," Sherlock shuffled forward a little on the bed so he was sitting on the edge. "It's getting pretty late." Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut? John nodded, an expected reaction. Sherlock knew he had fucked up. Definitely fucked up. It would be best for him just to go. He placed his hands on the bed to push himself up and off of it, and began to make his way over to the door, grabbing his coat which he had taken off at some point during the evening. But halfway through doing so, he completely froze. Something was touching his arm. He looked down and his eyes were met with John's hand. John's hand was on his arm. Sherlock's eyes flew up to his face. Was John stopping him from leaving?

"Please wait... I'm sorry." John spoke quietly, running a tongue over his lips before finally looking up to Sherlock's eyes.

"Sorry for what? You haven't done anything." Sherlock shrugged, but his voice told a different story.

"For being a prick," John quietly laughed and took a step closer to Sherlock, his hand still placed so gently and softly on Sherlock's arm, his thumb moving back and forth slightly which made little tingles travel across Sherlock's skin. "I shouldn't have freaked out, sorry. I… I don't really know why I did." _Because you become aggressive, flustered and anxious when confronted with your sexuality, _Sherlock internally explained, but externally he only smiled sympathetically.

"It's okay." His gaze fell back down to John's hand as he began to move his thumb more noticeably across his skin. But it became clear that it was a subconscious movement, as when John himself noticed, that beautiful blush illuminated his skin again and he drew his hand back. "It's okay," Sherlock repeated.

"So – if you still want to, of course – do you want to go out somewhere this weekend?" Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Well, that's if you want to? I wouldn't have thought you would after that, if I'm honest."

"No," John denied straight away, shaking his head. "Of course I still want to go. Like I said, freaking out was stupid and I'm sorry. I still want to go out." Sherlock's lips curled into a smile.

"Then we'll go out," he nodded, his smile widening into a small grin.


End file.
